University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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and the Little Father was the idol of his heart. His father had suffered injustice he knew, and if it ever depended on him he would right those bitter wrongs; but where could he do it better than in his mother ' s land and in the service of him whose every thought was for the welfare of his people? Petrovitch had overestimated the influence of his intellect upon the boy to whom he had often spoken of the degeneracy of Russia; he had overlooked the counterbalancing of early prejudice, and mistook respect- ful silence for the assurance of conviction. The boy was approaching seventeen when the father ' s eyes were opened. It had been a warm day and he had thrown himself on a lounge by an open window. A veranda vine-trellised cast a grateful shade and he was soon asleep. When he awoke he heard voices outside, his wife ' s and his son ' s. He had no intention of spying. His nature was too noble for that, but he lay there in idle listlessness, too indolent to move. What he heard, however, set every nerve pulsing. The conversation was of Rus- sia, its glorious past, all its greatness due to the rule of the Little Father. Frantic with rage, Petrovitch sprang from the lounge, and leaning out through the open window, gave full vent to the passions that con- sumed him. The last tie of affection for his wife was snapped. She had not only brought him ruin and exile. She had made a traitor of his son. Some excuse there was for the boy; there was none for her. In the fu- ture let her live or die. She was nothing to him. Then came the great war. It was a triumph for Petrovitch. Russia was drawn into the vortex — Russia corrupt to its core. He gloried in its shameful defeats. At last he was avenged. The despondency of his wife and son was an added pleasure. Now, he thought, they will know their sacred Russia and the con- temptible beast that desecrates its throne. His heart, however, was not happy, for the bitterness of hatred never gave him rest. Russia was suffering. Let it. Worse was to come. Let it hasten its pace. His false friends had fallen. It was justice long delayed. The Czar— The door opened and his son stood before him. I come to bid you good bye father, he said. I am sorry to pain you, but Russia needs me and I must go. Petrovitch was for a moment stunned. Such an anticipation had never entered his brain. He who usually was fluent of tongue was deprived of the use of speech. But it was only the calm preceding the storm. Go! he cried, go, ungrateful child, with a father ' s curse upon you. The young man paled but his resolution was not shaken. I must go, he said. It is my duty. May that and my mother ' s blessing avert the curse. The head of Petrovitch sank upon his breast as his son left the room. He could prevent the going he knew, but was it worth the trouble? Life 27

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©lb frfrofrttclj LD Petrovitch ' s wife was dying, but he took no interest in the matter. As he sat by her bed he felt no sense of grief, for one thing filled his soul to the exclusion of all else — hatred, hatred of Russia his fatherland. Nor was his hatred without cause. He had once been a man of importance, had risked his life more than once in the service of the Czar. But he had listened to the voice of love, love for this woman whose life was now ebbing fast, a woman fair of form, in youth, and vir- tuous, but of peasant birth; and the way to honor had been barred to him, and his friends had abandoned him and his Imperial Master had forgotten him. He might drift along a non-entity, but Russia would never know him more. When their child was born, he and his peasant wife carrying with them the remnants of his fortune, abandoned Russia, hoping on a sheep ranch in far off Queensland to obtain forgetfulness and peace. The first years had brought a measure of success, for the difficulties of his new life absorbed his attention and the love of wife and child were balm to his heart. But as time went on and his struggles diminished and leisure gave him more opportunity for thought, the past came back with all its bitterness and aroused to fever heat the slumbering passions of his soul. His very wife and child added to his torment. In her lack of culture his mind found no response. He had thought to lift her to his mental plane; he found by experience that he must sink to hers. When he spoke of his wrongs she would listen with patience and a degree of sympathy. But there were two thoughts rooted in her peasant mind that prevented any approach to a perfect accord between them. To her the soil of Rus- sia was ever sacred; and the thought that the Little Father could do wrong was ranked with blasphemy. His courtiers, his counsellors and officials might be scamps; yes, she had known some of them; but the Little Father she had reverenced with unquestioning faith from earliest childhood. Nothing could shake her confidence in him. That she her- self had been the source of trouble made but a faint impression upon her. She herself had bettered her condition by the marriage; she had never known ambition save in its most primitive and elementary form. All else eluded her grasp and puzzled her brain. Why worry about things that could not be mended. Her husband was a good man but his ideas were strange and his temper uncontrollable. The boy naturally grew up in the care of his mother. He loved and esteemed his father, but he saw hi m in great part through his mother ' s eyes. Moroseness does not attract the heart or inspire confidence. The fits of Petrovitch therefore cemented more and more the sympathies of mother and son. The child grew up devoted to the sacred soil of Russia, 26

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had been a series of failures; let this last end the list. Life had lost its value. Besides, he thought, if the boy comes back, he will come with eyes opened; if he does not — his death will be upon another ' s head. I shall suffer, but not as she will. Days and months passed in the desolate household. Ivor had reached Russia and joined the forces. Detached pieces of correspondence passed the censors, but they told nothing of feelings or impressions; they were records of marches and battles and the holding of trenches. Then word came that all was over. The Little Father claimed one life; another was soon to follow. You have killed him! was all that Petrovitch said to his wife. He loved me little, but I would have given him all that I had. He did his duty, she replied. None can do more. But from that moment, heart-broken, she began to fail, and the end was drawing near. And her husband sat by her bedside unmoved by her misery. She had brought it upon herself by her foolishness. Let her pay the price. He was thinking more of the grave in Russia than of one soon to be opened for the dying woman. Little mattered it what became of her. She had been the bane of his life. But a sudden exclamation from the sufferer drew his attention. It was a cry of happiness and joy. He gazed bewildered, for the upraised eyes were bright, and the features seemed again the features of youth, and the outstretched arms expressed the yearning of her heart. Do you not see him? she cried. Our Ivor! Have you no welcome for his coming home? How tender his glance for both! Ivor — Ivor! and she passed away. The heart of Petrovitch was touched. The dead love was rekindled from its ashes. His gaze was earnest and long. The face upon the bed carried him back to early memories, and the darkness of intervening years seemed to roll up and disappear, and with it vanished the demon of hate. I too was to blame, he said, too centered in myself. May God forgive me. In the famine that followed in the wake of the war, the children of Moscow held one name in benediction. It was only a name, for their benefactor was far away, a broken-hearted man among the sheep-folds of Queensland. —J. Francis Good, ' 28. 2K